A Trophy Father's Trophy Son
by OnlySecondsAway
Summary: Tony is alone in his apartment after his father has died. Steve's helped him with his drinking problems, and he can't help but let his mind wander. Part of my college AU, a sequel to You Sounded Sober. Rated M for dark themes, and language.
1. A Trophy Father's Trophy Son

**A/N: **This story goes after You Sounded Sober, and Tony has stopped drinking, since Steve had cleaned out the entire apartment.

* * *

Tony is sitting in the living room, back hunched against the bar. If Tony were being completely honest, he'd admit he misses his father. There aren't many people he's honest with, though; the only person who knows how he's feeling, actually, is Steve. Even then, Tony only let him in when Steve forced him to; Steve could tell these things about Tony, he just _knew_ him that well. Plus, the blonde had been the only constant in his, what Tony preferred to call it, "dark period."

Now that the two had started a more intimate kind of relationship, Tony is starting to feel better about his life. While he wouldn't say they necessarily have the smoothest relationship, what with Steve's hectic work schedule and Tony being, well, _Tony_, he's certain things are getting better. He spends less time in his workshop, he's stopped drinking, he's stopped sleeping with random strangers.

Though the two of them, mostly Steve, had emptied Tony's apartment of any and all alcohol, Tony often preferred to stay at Steve's smaller, homier apartment in Brooklyn. Despite there being no _physical_ temptations in the large, top-three-floors apartment, his childhood home house still bore too many memories of his father, his childhood.

It's only been a matter of months since his father killed himself, and Tony hasn't done much in the way of personalizing the space. His father's umbrella and coat still hang on their respective racks in the entry way; unfinished projects clutter random corners; the recently-emptied bar in the corner of the living room still proudly displays Howard's tumblers, shot glasses, champagne flutes, and wine glasses. Everywhere he looks, he can see his father. The older Stark's suicide has amplified all of the feelings he'd felt growing up, like the resentment he felt toward his mother for leaving him, the abandonment he felt every time his father failed to be somewhere.

There are things Tony wishes he could ask his father. Did any of this have to do with him? Why did he do it _now_? Did he think about his own son when he decided to leave him, alone, with a multi-billion dollar, international corporation? Where did he want that company to go? Where did he want _Tony_ to go?

He resented that his father could just leave him. The man hadn't been a good father, but at least he'd been alive. Despite what Tony now realizes was emotional abuse, he'd never been physically abusive. And while he hadn't been there for any of the important times in Tony's life, like birthdays, graduations, and awards ceremonies, Tony had still had someone to spend holidays with. Granted, Howard had been drunk for most them, but by the time Tony was twelve, he was drunk at them, too. Mother's Day was usually the worst, like the one before he'd left for MIT. He was still fifteen, and he just wanted to _know_.

"_Why did she leave?" he asks naively._

"_Excuse me?" the older man snaps, eyes narrowing._

"_My mother," the boy clarifies, "why did she leave me?"_

_Howard Stark is quiet for a moment, staring into the bottom of his glass of scotch. Tony watches him, idly swirling his own glass of amber liquid. _

"_She didn't want us," the inventor finally begins, startling Tony, and taking a sip of his drink. "She didn't want me, and she didn't want to be a single mother," sip." She'd never wanted me, but when she got pregnant, we got married. Neither of us had intended to get married, or have a family," sip. "I was too absorbed in my work, and she, well, she was too absorbed in herself," he finished what's left, and poured himself another glass._

_Now Tony is the one who's trying to think of what to say, but he can't think of anything. So, ultimately, it's his fault she'd left. He swallows down the rest of his drink, much like his father, and refills the glass, much higher than it probably should be. _

The young brunette feels like his head is spinning, which is weird, considering how _painfully_ _sober_ he is. He's mostly doing this sobriety thing for Steve. Steve deserves it, because Tony knows now that the older man has been in love with him for a very long time, and he doesn't want to fuck this up like every other relationship he's had.

All he wants is a drink, though. He can't help but feel that if his mother left because of him, he must be why his father left, too. He just doesn't get it, though. Everything he ever did was to make his father _proud_ of him. He'd done things like honors classes, the school clubs, finishing high school early, going to college when he hadn't needed to, and countless science fairs to try to get his father's attention. Nother ever seemed to work, though.

"_And finally," the judge reading the list of winners pauses, "our first place winner. Congratulations… Anthony Stark!"_

_The other students clap, but Tony can see it on their face. They're disappointed, but the expressions they wear also shows a lack of surprise. Who else would win, but Anthony Stark, the prodigal son of _the_ Howard Stark?_

_Tony doesn't really care that he's won, again, however. He mostly cares that while every other student at the science fair is seated with at least one parent, the place for his own father is untouched and empty._

_He makes his way to the front of the auditorium, looking straight ahead, that famous Stark smile plastered wide across his face. He graciously accepts the award, and finds himself quickly scanning the crowd for his father's face, just in case. It's a large crowd, being the nationals of a prestigious competition for gifted high school students, but he knows the older man isn't just hidden in a sea of people._

_It's stupid to get his hopes up this way. His father didn't come to any of his other competitions, why would he be at his last?_

Tony goes to the fridge to get a water bottle. He knows he won't find anything worthwhile in there, but at least he can try to ease the lump forming in his throat. Shutting the refrigerator door, he sees the one picture in the sea of reminders, scribbled ideas, and take-out menus, and pulls it down.

It's of him and his father, from when Tony was twelve, right before he started high school. Howard had taken him to a conference that was preparing the next Stark Expo and this picture had been taken by a colleague of his father's. The young Tony has the hugest smile on his face, the real kind, but Howard looked distracted. Tony was excited because it was his birthday, and he was actually spending it with his father. He didn't know at the time that the only reason Howard had even brought him that week was because he'd given their normal nanny that week off, and he couldn't find a temporary replacement. Truthfully, he'd only brought Tony because he'd had no other choice. Tony shakes his head, not believing how naïve he used to be.

"_Smile!" The cheerful blonde woman encourages, and Tony smiles his biggest smile as the vintage Polaroid camera flashes._

_It's his twelfth birthday, and it's also the first one he is spending with his dad. He's been tagging along with him the last few days, excited by all of the new exhibits his father is planning for the upcoming Expo. He'd even been able to point out a few mistakes that his father and some of his colleagues had missed, much to the older Stark's chagrin, which Tony didn't notice._

_It's the end of the day, and Tony is just waiting for his dad to finish up his last bit of work, when the inventor asks the woman if she'll take Tony up to his room in the hotel they've all been meeting at. Tony is a little disappointed, knowing that means his father has more work than the boy had thought. He just figures they'll go out for dinner or something later, and decides he'll just shower and get ready for when his dad is done._

_The blonde woman really is very nice, and she makes some polite conversation with Tony as they go up the elevator._

"_Are you having a good time with your dad?" She asks, smiling down at the little boy._

"_Yeah," Tony responds. "It's my birthday, so I'm glad I get to spend it with him. He's not usually around on my birthdays. But this year, he let me come to here with him. It's been really fun."_

_Tony is looking down at some papers he'd been sketching on, and misses the flash of emotion across the woman's face. _

"_Oh, well that's very nice. I'm glad you're having fun."_

"_Thanks," Tony starts to talk again. "I think he just has a little bit more work to finish up, so then we're going to go to dinner, I think."_

_They arrive to Tony's room he's sharing with his dad, and the woman faces him as he swipes his key-card._

"_Well, then, I hope you do," she encourages, and hands him the now-developed Polaroid shot." Have good dinner. Happy birthday, Tony," she smiles widely at him, and hopes to herself that Howard remembers the boy's birthday before the end of the night._

"_Thanks, ma'am. It was nice to meet you," Tony responds, before shutting the door._

_He busies himself, now, with getting ready for dinner. He showers, making sure there's no oil, grease, or dirt on his body, and scrubs his hair. When he gets out, he combs his hair as neatly as he can, and puts on the nicest clothes he'd brought, which are really just some dark jeans and a button down shirt._

_Eventually, he's done all he can to get ready, and glances at the clock. It's been about an hour since he left the meeting area, so he figures his dad will be up soon. With that in mind, he decides to put on the television, and hacks into the hotel's cable to get some better channels before settling on an episode of _Future Weapons_ that has his dad in it._

_He watches a few episodes before nodding off, and doesn't wake up when his father comes in at three in the morning, finally back from the hotel bar._

Tony rubs his head, and all he wants is to drown out these memories with a good whiskey. But he doesn't have any. He runs a thumb over the picture, remembering how the next morning he'd woken up, still fully dressed on top of the bed covers with the picture still in his hand, and he remembers how absolutely crushed he'd felt. It was then that Tony had started to hate his father. He'd lost the innocent outlook of a child that night, and had decided then that he'd take care of himself. He didn't need anyone else to be happy, as long as he had himself, a project, and a bottle of scotch.

Tony makes his way over to the couch, still clutching the photo in his hand, not even sure how it had managed to stay up on the fridge all the years; he assumes the nanny or Jarvis put it there to begin with. He takes a swig from his water bottle, and rubs his eyes. His headache has only gotten worse, and he steadily starts to nod off.

When he wakes up, he realizes he's not on the couch. He's in his bed, and he's in a pair of pajama bottoms, not the jeans and t-shirt he'd been wearing earlier. Wrapped around him are Steve's arms, and he sees the old photograph propped up against the alarm clock, blocking its bright red glare. He doesn't know when Steve had arrived at the apartment, but he does know one thing, for sure. He doesn't need his father or his whiskey to be happy; he has Steve.


	2. I'm A Mess and You're Worse

When Steve arrives at Tony's place at a little after two in the afternoon, he's surprised to see Tony fast asleep on the couch. It's a Thursday afternoon and he's just finished his shift at the coffee shop, where he's been since six a.m. He figures he'll spend his evening off from the bar with Tony, who he's only been able to see in passing recently.

Honestly, Steve is exhausted. He feels like he's being stretched too thin; he works at the coffee shop and bar a combined total of sixty hours a week. Not to mention he's been trying to get some of his art into some of the local galleries. Needless to say, taking a nap with Tony is the best way to spend an afternoon that he can think of.

When he lifts the smaller man off the couch, he sees a small sheet of something flutter to the floor. With a little difficulty, he manages to keep Tony in his arms, and retrieve what he discovers in an old Polaroid. He's surprised to see that it's a picture of Tony and Howard, and though Tony was always small for his age, Steve thinks he's about eleven or twelve. And if a picture says a thousand words, then in true Tony fashion, this one says so many more.

The look on the young Tony's face is incredible; his smile looks like it could light up the photograph even without the flash. He's grinning from ear to ear, and Steve can honestly say it's one of the most genuine smiles he's ever seen cross his boyfriend's face.

Next to him, however, is Howard. The older Stark looks distracted, to say the least; caught up in some other moment, like the picture is a nuisance. He has a satchel over one shoulder, as well a briefcase in one hand. Over the other shoulder is a jacket, and he's balancing a few notepads and some binders in his hands. Steve can also see a blackberry lit up on top of a binder, like Howard had been typing away only moments ago.

It's the combination of the two Stark boys that makes the picture so striking. Tony looks happy, like he doesn't yet resent his father. He just looks absolutely delighted to be with him, to be taking a picture with his dad. Steve can't help but wonder what changed. He knows Howard was a drunk who was never around, long before this picture was taken; so why did Tony still care, even at age twelve?

He realizes he's still standing next to the couch and that Tony has snuggled down into his arms, his face pressed against Steve's chest. The older man can't help but smile contentedly at the young man in his arms. Though eighteen, when he sleeps he looks like a child; like his worries have faded away, replaced instead by a dreamless, contented sleep.

He walks to the bedroom, and lays Tony down on the bed, before propping the old Polaroid up against the alarm clock on Tony's bedside table. He slides the jeans and boxers off Tony's body, and slips him into a pair of soft pajama bottoms.

Once he lies down next to Tony, he can't sleep. Seeing that picture of Tony and his father had him thinking about his own father, who he had lost at a young age. His mother and father had both been killed in a hit and run when Steve was only four years old. He barely remembers his parents; their faces were only known from photographs, and their voices were only vague renderings from old video cassette recordings and distant memories.

He wonders which is better; to have had an absentee drunk of a father, or to have never had one at all? Growing up, the small, underdeveloped blonde boy had watched his friends interact with their fathers; they'd play catch and go to little league, they'd go to movies or play video games, they'd work around the house with their toy tool boxes and real ones, respectively.

Steve knows these weren't normal occurrences for Tony; the two of them were more likely to work in Howard's workshop if they spent any time together, but he must have some good memories with his father. Steve has none.

The only memory of his father he has is a short, simple one, in which he's sitting with his dad on the couch, watching Saturday morning cartoons. His dad had fixed them both a bowl of Cheerios, and they were flipping channels between reruns of Power Rangers and Doug. But that's all Steve can remember; he knows he was happy that day, but that was it. It must have been right before he died, too, because Steve couldn't possibly remember much further back.

He does remember police men showing up at his house, where he was being watched by his neighbor. He remembers a funeral, where everyone around just cried and cast pitying glances at him. He remembers packing up the few belongings he had and moving from relative to relative for the next fourteen years. He remembers watching other boys his age spending time with their fathers, while he drew in whatever room was set up for him at the time. He remembers elementary school days dedicated to bring dads to school, making paper ties and cards for Father's Day, and dads in their work clothes who had rushed to school to see the class play.

He wonders what that was like for Tony. Steve knew his father wouldn't be at any of his school plays, at bring your dad to school day; he knew he wouldn't be able to read the card he put on his grave every Father's day.

But Tony, Tony probably always waited, anxiously, eyes glued to the classroom door. He probably always hoped that would be the day Howard rushed in, just a few minutes late from a meeting with his Board of Directors, to watch his son deliver his one line.

And when he realized his father wouldn't be there again, he probably felt the way Steve felt. He probably felt the anxious knot in his stomach grow dense and heavy, sinking lower. He probably felt his throat grow that terrible lump that dries out your whole mouth. His eyes probably stung, while he blinked hard to keep his tears at bay. But then he probably just told himself "next time," to comfort himself.

Maybe that's why even at twelve his childish innocence tried to convince him that his father was a dad. And maybe that's why sometime after this photo, things changed so much.

And still, Steve cannot decide which is worse. It's like the old adage, "it's better to have loved and lost, than to never have loved at all." It's simply not true, but neither is the reverse. The better option is the one no one gives; to have love and to keep it. To have a father who came to school plays, who played ball, who was sober on holidays.

After this thought Steve slowly starts to drift to sleep; his exhaustion catching up to him, and Tony's warm body wrapped in his own. When he awakens, he feels Tony stirring in his arms. He realizes it's been a few hours as he glances groggily at the alarm clock's bright red numbers. Tony has started to wiggle, and turns in his arms to face him.

"Morning," Tony mumbles, and Steve can't help but smile at how adorable he looks.

"It's dinner time, Tony," he laughs at his sleep addled boyfriend, placing a kiss to the top of the smaller man's forehead.

"Oh, well, good, then. I didn't sleep too much."

"Tony, you hardly sleep at all, I think you could use more," Steve argues.

"But that's not the point. Do you want to go out? Or order in? I'm starving," Tony tries to distract him from his strange sleeping habits.

"Order in. We can watch a movie and eat in our pajamas," Steve smiles; the idea sounds nice.

Tony just smiles before climbing out of bed, blankets and all. A minute later, he returns with his binder full of delivery-capable restaurants and the phone.

"The real question is, then," Tony begins dramatically, "Italian, Thai, Chinese, Sushi, Indian, or that Mediterranean place?"

Steve chuckles, then considers the options presented.

"I'm definitely feeling the Mediterranean. We can order a lot of the good different sides. It's fun," he feels like a dork, but he loves getting everything on the menu.

They decide on falafel, chicken shawarma wraps, pita and hummus, spanakopita, dolmas, tabouleh, and a salad they know neither of them will eat. Tony then calls in the order, which given its size, he offers to pay for.

Tony then sets the phone and menus on the bedside table, and picks up the photo. He holds it delicately between his fingers, clearly reflecting on its significance. Steve leans over on his shoulder, which is a little difficult, given that Tony is so much smaller.

"You look so happy," Steve comments quietly, hoping this isn't something that will cause Tony to withdraw.

"I was. I really was," Tony concedes. "It was taken on my twelfth birthday, you know."

So he was exactly the age Steve had presumed. "And Howard took you out? You never told me about that."

"That's because he didn't," Tony pauses soberly, "this was a conference he had to go to. It was to prep for that year's Stark Expo. He hadn't worked out any kind of sitter for me that would be around for the entire week, so he had to take me. I thought the whole thing was amazing. I loved watching all of his colleagues work; they'd even let me help. By that age I knew as much as they did. I remember my father trying to keep his cool when I actually fixed one of _his_ mistakes," he laughs dryly at that. "But still, this was the second to last day of the conference, and it was also my birthday. I knew during the day he'd be busy, and so I assumed we were going out for dinner.

"The woman that took this photo for us walked me up to my room that night, while my father finished something for work. I told her about how excited I was. Looking back, she must've known, she must have felt bad for me. She probably knew what would happen, having been working with my father.

"And so," he pauses here, "I showered, scrubbed myself clean. I dressed in the nicest clothes I'd brought, which were just a dark pair of jeans and a button down shirt, nothing special. But I figured we'd go somewhere nice. I'd even combed my hair into place. And then I waited. I watched some television show about cool new weapons; it even had my dad on it. And I just kept watching. Eventually I fell asleep," he's quiet for a long moment. Steve runs his hand through the somber man's hair.

"I never heard him come in. But when his alarm went off at six the next morning, I realized what had happened. I heard him grown, before shuffling into the bathroom to shower and try to shake his hangover. I could _smell_ the alcohol hanging in the room," Steve knows the smell; the acrid scent of whiskey and sleep was one he'd experienced with Tony. "It was probably the worst I'd ever felt. I'd gotten my hopes up, and he'd let me down again. I'd _actually_ thought he remembered my birthday. But instead, it was like every other year at home. He'd gone to the hotel bar to drown himself, while I sat alone, waiting."

Tony stops there, he can feel the anger rising in his throat, but Steve's hand in his hair is helping to calm him.

Steve realizes that's when Tony stopped hoping, stopped caring. He started his drinking that year, and by thirteen he was a full-blown alcoholic. Steve's throat starts to tighten, and he pulls Tony in as close as he can.

"I'm sorry," he murmurs into Tony's hair.

"It's nothing you can apologize for," Tony responds. "It's just something I've learned to deal with."

Steve knows that Tony knows his way of coping probably wasn't the best, but also knows that they're working on that.

"I know," he says, conceding. "It's interesting. Earlier I was thinking about our childhoods. I was thinking about what might be worse, or at least harder emotionally. If that makes sense?" Tony nods, letting the blonde continue. "I always felt growing up, that I would give anything just to have my parents back; even if they weren't always there, or weren't the best, I would've taken them. But then again, now I see that's not exactly any easier. At least I never had any _hope_ that my father might show up at a play or awards ceremony. I don't know," he trails off.

"It's okay," Tony says. "I understand what you're saying."

Steve smiles, and leans down to kiss Tony, pressing his lips to his forehead, then his cheek, followed by his nose, and finally his lips.

Tony laughs, "We're quite the pair then, aren't we?" he says.

"Oh, we just have some issues. But yes. I'm a mess," Steve rubs his face with the hand not planted firmly in Tony's brown locks.

"I'm worse," Tony teases, kissing Steve again.

Eventually the food comes, and the two men camp out in the bed, picking over what they like best, and leaving the rest for late night fridge raids. They settle on Pride and Prejudice, which Steve is not afraid to admit is one of his favorite movies.

As they start to fall asleep, Steve wraps his arms around Tony again; it's very quickly become his favorite sleeping position.


End file.
